It would explain why he spends all day on his laptop. He’s probably a novelist. One of those guys who writes a book from a woman’s POV and then swims through an ocean of praise about how sensitive he is.

He nods. “Okay if I clear this?” He motions to my collection of notebooks and papers. “Set it on the bench next to you or something?”

“Sure.”

We reach for my leather-bound notebook, a gift from Nana, at the same time. Our fingers brush and the contact makes my stomach flutter, which is flat-out wrong. I inhale sharply and pretend it didn’t happen. He doesn’t seem to notice, just lifts my notebook and pens and hands them to me to make room for his laptop. I can’t help but notice how artistic his fingers look—and then I notice something catastrophic: a loose sheet of paper has fallen out of my notebook and flutters to the floor. He bends over to get it.

“Don’t!”

He sighs. “What is wrong with you? I’m just picking it up.”

“Give it to me—” I waggle my fingers impatiently. My strange reaction has piqued his curiosity.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

He holds up the paper and squints at it.

“It’s private,” I insist.

“Is this a . . .” He turns it sideways and my cheeks get so hot I may burst into flames. People could gather around me to keep warm.

“It’s a tally,” I say, hoping to hasten him along. “Just a tally, nothing important—”

He won’t be deterred or hurried. “ ‘Table Champion,’ ” he reads aloud, “with dates and initials—who’s MHH?”

“No one,” I stutter. “What? I don’t know.”

He tries and fails to muffle his laughter. “Did you . . . make a chart for which of us gets the table each day?”

“MHH,” I grit out. “Miles. High. Hair.”

His hand flies up to his hair, and it’s my turn to smirk.

“Miles-High Hair?” he repeats, looking hurt. “Me, Miles? How do you know my name?”

“ ‘It knows my name!’ ” I shriek sarcastically.

He sets the tally between us and sits down. His legs are so long he has to tuck his knees flush under the table or they’ll invade my space. “How do you know my name?”

“They only say it every day when your order’s up.”

“Only someone who’d been listening for it would notice, though.”

“You’re right; you caught me. I just had to find out the name of the stranger who YELLED AT ME for no reason.”

He cringes. “In my defense, that was one of the worst days of my life.”

“Me being a tiny bit greedy was one of the worst days of your life?” I retort. “Can we switch lives, please?”

“No, the bad stuff went down before I came to the café. You being a lot greedy was the last straw.”